


Flirting Over Evidence

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is the first to notice that John and Lestrade are <i>flirting</i> instead of paying attention to him. He is not impressed. John is, though. Impressed, that is. And...pleased. As is Lestrade. Pleased...and nervous. Pasts, presents and possible futures make up six installments (and a smutty epilogue) rotating POV between Sherlock, Lestrade and John, set shortly after John moves in with Sherlock.</p><p>Part One :: Without looking back at them Sherlock pulled out his pocket magnifier and drawled, "If you've finished with your flirting I've some <i>evidence</i> that might interest you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flirting Over Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> From a[ prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockinkmeme.livejournal.com/525.html?thread=9229#t9229): _We know Sherlock can be considered a little... insensitive when it comes to the gentler of emotions and isn't exactly what one would call a model friend. Obviously John knows this and he is quite happy to accept this, he likes Sherlock just the way he is. However, when he and Lestrade strike up a casual conversation one day over a crime scene Sherlock is investigating he finds they get on rather well. Lestrade for his part, finds he is quite taken with John and decides maybe he should pursue that..._

Sherlock straightened and turned with a swirl of his coat to make his pronouncement, "We're looking for a young woman with a bull terrier and a mild case of scoliosis," but it fell flat; Anderson had moved away and was patently ignoring him, and Donovan, though listening, had her eyes fixed on her notebook as she scribbled. Irked, Sherlock spun around, looking for his not-so-captive audience. There they were--uncharacteristically staying put where he had banished them fifteen minutes ago.

Lestrade was leaning against the garden wall--the rough brick wreaking havoc on his best suit--hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, face folded into a weathered map of a thousand laugh lines. Sherlock had to concentrate to remember the last time he'd seen the DI looking so... Defenceless. As for John, he had his chin tucked to his chest and a hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to conceal his amusement. Clearly shaking a joke, then--an inappropriate one if he was to guess. (Which he wasn't.) But then their heads swivelled towards him as one at his approach and Lestrade consciously stilled his features back to stern neutrality and John's ears went pink. Ah. A joke at Sherlock's expense, then. John licked his lips and took an unconscious shuffling step away from the DI. Sherlock blinked.

"How's it coming along?" Lestrade crossed his arms, once more on the defence, his voice suspiciously bland in the just-shy-of-awkward silence when he realized John wasn't going to say anything.

"It's come along and it's gone away," Sherlock replied. "We're done here. Come on, John."

"Now--hang on." John had started to step dutifully after Sherlock but the DI detained him with a hand on his arm. Lestrade's open palm rested just below John's elbow. Sherlock stared at the point of connection and almost missed the way John's eyes shot reflexively to Lestrade's, but in their glance he saw that there was more at work than Lestrade's usual objection to Sherlock's usual abrupt departure. Lestrade crossed his arms once more and John put his hands in his pockets. All in all there was something most un-usual afoot and it was making Sherlock’s palms prick. "You can't just leave, I called you in for analysis. You're not running this one, Sherlock. Just... Tell me what you saw."

"John," Sherlock said, voice a sharp crack in the silence he'd let stretch on for a full ten seconds beyond what Lestrade was comfortable with. "In the police car, the torch. Bring it here."

John glanced at Lestrade who gave a resigned shrug and waved him on. When he was out of earshot Sherlock stepped slowly closer, pulling his gloves back on and asking in his most unconcerned voice, "I'm curious, Lestrade. How long have you been planning to sleep with my flatmate?"

Lestrade's mouth fell open as his face drew closed but years of practice allowed him to catch the "What" or "How" or "Why" that rose to his lips. That didn't even make it to his lips--Sherlock wasn't able to make out which word it would have become, and that annoyed him. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, but then surprised Sherlock by tucking his hands back into his pockets, leaving his chest and the vital organs beneath unprotected; making himself vulnerable. Sherlock wondered with a flash of anger if he'd done it deliberately. It wasn’t like Lestrade to be so calculating.

"I know this won't shut you up, but I have to say it." He fixed Sherlock with look that Sherlock couldn't read; was it more perplexed than angered? The shades were too subtle for him and he had no frame of reference. "You do know, Sherlock, that my private life is _none_ of your business."

Sherlock stared at him, searching his face and his stance and allowing the memories he'd unconsciously recorded to play back at double speed behind his eyes. "The thought hadn't occurred to you until today. Less than an hour ago. What did he say to you?"

"Christ, Lestrade, this thing weighs a tonne," John grumbled, hefting the heavy-duty torch with both hands. "This isn't what you run about after criminals with, is it?"

Sherlock took it from him without taking his eyes from Lestrade. Lestrade rolled his eyes and huffed an exasperated breath, looking away from the flash of Sherlock's best I-know-everything-you're-thinking grin. As he walked back over to the set of prints in the mud, he heard John murmur, "What's up? Did he say something?" Lestrade didn't reply but Sherlock knew without looking that he'd just given John the same _not-now_ shake of his head that Anderson and Donovan were so used to receiving when Sherlock Holmes was in the room.

Sherlock flipped the switch on the lamp, illuminating the swiftly darkening scene. The sounds and smells of the river worked their way under his skin and he felt as though the fibreglass filaments he was pointing out to Donovan were flossing between his bones. He blinked and straightened, lip curling. What an inexcusable fancy to entertain. Without looking over his shoulder he pulled out his pocket magnifier and drawled, "If you've finished with your flirting I’ve some _evidence_ that might interest you."

  
Lestrade spent the rest of the evening standing fully five feet away from John and all times and avoiding eye contact.


	2. The Plot Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is the first to notice that John and Lestrade are flirting instead of paying attention to him. He is not impressed. John is, though. Impressed, that is. And...pleased. As is Lestrade. Pleased...and nervous. Pasts, presents and possible futures make up six installments (and a smutty epilogue) rotating POV between Sherlock, Lestrade and John, set shortly after John moves in with Sherlock.
> 
> Part Two :: "Sally thinks you're a widower. Closer to the mark than Anderson who thinks you wear the ring to keep women off your back. John, in his delightful naivete, assumed you were married. Until today." Sherlock looked back at Lestrade, face a stony mask. "Want to hear what I know about John?"

Lestrade spent the next hour or so halfway hoping that Sherlock would do what he'd just told him not to do and shove off. Of course he didn't. Instead he hung around annoyingly close, practically over Lestrade's shoulder whenever he wasn't whirling back and forth between him and John. John, who finally  _was_  "John" after weeks of being "Watson" or even "Doctor." 

 _John, who'd rolled his eyes at Sherlock and gone to slouch against the garden wall when ordered, not looking too fussed as Lestrade joined him to ask, "How do you put up with him? And for God's sake, why?"_

 _John shrugged and looked over with a fond smile to where Sherlock was caught up in the act of deducing. It wasn't the first time he'd asked this question, but it was the first time John had answered. "Because I'm an idiot."_

 _Lestrade actually laughed aloud at that. A surprised burst of unregulated sound that turned John's head, made him focus that smile on Lestrade instead. It grew into a grin and the doctor gave a helpless shrug, laughing too._

Lestrade blinked and looked away, realizing a beat too late that his eyes had been focused on the back of John's head. "Well I'm off here," he said, coughing slightly when John and Sherlock looked at him. "Back to the office, see if I can make any headway there."

"Lovely," Sherlock was at his side in a flash, knotting his scarf around his neck. "John, you're dead on your feet. Go home, you'll be of no use to anyone." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I'll come with you. I'll undoubtedly see something important that you'll inevitably miss."

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest but couldn't get the words out. He finally just heaved an exasperated sigh and shrugged his acceptance. The look he shared with John said more--  _Yeah. I do it too._

 _"I'm serious, though. You shouldn't let him walk all over you. S'a bad habit, trust me."_

 _"And yet… Here we are."_

 _"Yeah. Here we are." Lestrade cocked his head at John, considering his next words. "But answer me something, Watson--"_

 _"Only if you call me John," John interrupted, looking surprised at himself as he did._

 _"All right..." Lestrade said slowly, working his brain around that one, considering and dismissing the idea of offering his own Christian name in return. "John. Tell me this; working with him is one thing. But how do you work living with him? What I mean is, you're the first man I've ever met that he seems to give a damn about and without a doubt the only person in the world who gives one back. So what is it... What's he like under all...that?" Lestrade waved his hand vaguely in Sherlock's direction as the detective paced along the walkway, coat billowing and snapping in the wind like a great, black sail._

 _John turned to him with a perfect poker face and said, "Are you_  seriously  _asking me if Sherlock Holmes prefers boxers or briefs, Lestrade?"_

Sherlock slid into the passenger seat and dialled up the heat as soon as Lestrade started the car. Lestrade said nothing as he cranked it back down, his old angry foot leaden on the accelerator. Sherlock didn't protest but cosied himself back into the seat's cracked leather embrace, tucked his hand hands under his arms and stared straight ahead with that knowing smirk that got Lestrade's dander up quick as lightning. 

The consulting detective knew it was only a matter of time before the detective inspector snapped at him, and the inspector knew the consulting knew he knew that, so he saved the bother of trying to hold it in. "You know you've got no right to go making calls like that."

Sherlock had the nerve to look perplexed.

"Think whatever you want about me, I don't care. But my private...life...is not a matter for public speculation."

And now he had the audacity to sound offended. "You of all people should know, Lestrade, that  _I_  don't  _speculate_." Lestrade flexed his hands against the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change and was coming up with a really scathing reply when Sherlock started speaking in that  _voice,_  that unstoppable monotone that reduced your life to a series of events strung together in a chain of inevitability; as logical and as dull as the way night followed day. "You had a lover. A  _man._  Together four years. Owned a house you couldn't really afford but you did it to make him happy. You weren't out and didn't want to be, and he resented being kept in your closet. He died the year before we met." Sherlock turned to look out the window.  _Bored._  "Haven't ever found out his name, probably because I don't care. You wear his ring now, trying impotently to make it up to him. Sally thinks you're a widower. Closer to the mark than Anderson who thinks you wear the ring to keep women off your back. John, in his delightful naïveté, assumed you were married. Until today." He looked back at Lestrade, face a stony mask. "Want to hear what I know about John?"

The light had turned but Lestrade didn't move. He flipped on his spinners when someone honked at him, reached across Sherlock, and opened the door. "Get out."

~~~

It was for times like this that Lestrade wished he kept a snapshot of Sean in his office. Of course, he'd never experienced a "time like this" before so how was he to know he'd need to arm himself. He took what comfort he could in the bottle of Jameson locked in his bottom drawer. His thumb caressed the smooth band around his finger as he ploughed through charts, photographs, arrest reports... Anything that might spark with the facts and grow into a lead.

Lead. Leeds. Sean's team. He'd held the tickets to the match of the year in his hand, last time Greg saw him. "Always up t'yer fookin' bollocks in wurk." It held hardly any venom--just acceptance. An old dance they did too well. Sean had bent and kissed his neck, lips tickling against his ear. "Be sure an' have yer evening cuppa. If our lads win I'll be comin' home plastered an' wantin' yeh six ways t'Sunday. Awright?" Plastered. Splattered. Bled out in the gutter. Lestrade half-heard the traffic report on the old fuzzy radio behind him as he drank cold coffee and wrote up his case notes for a trial the next week. It took him two days to find out what happened. Sean's friends had never liked him and Sean's family had never heard of him.

Family. 

Lestrade blinked. He pulled a file across his desk and paged through it until he found the note he was looking for and read carefully, a crease forming between his brows. Then he pulled out his phone and dialled.

"John? Lestrade. Listen, is scoliosis hereditary?"

~~~

The next evening, case closed, Lestrade was just leaving the Yard when his phone went off. Text: John Watson. He glanced around, feeling a bit foolish as he caught himself. He had no real reason to be furtive. And anyway he was alone.

 _Sherlock's just told me what happened. Sounds bloody dreadful. Though he seemed more upset that you figured it out without him. Will the girl be all right?_

 _Sherlock's pride will recover. So will she, thank God._

 _And you?_

 _Better when I get a pint in me_

 _Where you headed?_

 _The Prospect. Ever been?_


	3. Awfully Unusual Pub Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is the first to notice that John and Lestrade are flirting instead of paying attention to him. He is not impressed. John is, though. Impressed, that is. And...pleased. As is Lestrade. Pleased...and nervous. Pasts, presents and possible futures make up six installments (and a smutty epilogue) rotating POV between Sherlock, Lestrade and John, set shortly after John moves in with Sherlock.
> 
> Part Three :: Lestrade's look said, _are you sure?_
> 
> John's nod said, _Oh, God, yes._

John's never been the type to sit alone at a pub.

He doesn't much care what that says about him. Insecure, self-conscious, whatever. He didn't like it, and he never did it. So when he arrived at The Prospect twenty minutes after Lestrade texted him, he was hoping, with a fervour akin to prayer, that Lestrade would already be there. Because he knew himself, and he didn't know what he was doing, and he was pretty sure that if he had to sit there by himself he was probably going to end up turning around and going home. Home to where Sherlock'd been scratching at the violin for the past two hours; home to where whatever's in the microwave (he didn't quite dare look) had started to smell; home to where there was nothing on telly and they were out of food and there was nothing to look forward to but a cold bed in a cold room (third time in a week he'd had to phone up the heating company) and probably a nightmare waiting him, going by his track record for the week.

But, despite all that, John would rather go home than sit alone at a bar. He just wasn't the type for it.

But god _damn_ if Lestrade didn't make it look good.

He was sitting just at the corner of the bar, one elbow up, fiddling with the tiny straw in his drink. Something dark amber coloured over ice that clinked as he lifted it to his lips. Taking a slow swallow, Lestrade looked as at-home as John had ever seen him.

John slid onto the stool beside him, and Lestrade smiled at him. John smiled back. It was all he could think to do as his stomach tightened and his heart started up an unsteady rhythm of _told you so I told you so._

Lestrade flagged down the bartender, addressing him by name--Luke--and told him to add John's drink to his bill. John started to protest but Lestrade cut him off. "Don't, really. I've got an account here. It's my pleasure."

John smiled. Again. And took a long pull off his pint when it arrived.

"So…" Lestrade glanced at him, thumb tracing round and round the rim of his glass. "Sherlock told you what happened, how it ended?"

"Not really. Honestly, I've never seen him so distracted. Kept going on about… I'm not sure, something about an umbrella, a case with an umbrella and a diamond." John swivelled slightly on his barstool so he wasn't craning his neck to look at Lestrade. "He didn't tell me anything about that either but I'm guessing it was the last time you beat him to the punch?"

Lestrade cracked a grin and downed the rest of his drink, pushing the empty glass forward with two fingers when Luke lifted the bottle of single malt down from the shelf. "Yep. A year ago and he can't let it go." Lestrade raised his replenished glass to clink against John's, and swallowed half of it in one pull.

John watched him but didn't drink. Lestrade's grin and easy manner didn't quite fit. When he put down his glass and wiped his lips on the back of his hand, John said, "It sounded horrid, the bit I got from Sherlock. I know you're…" _Invested in your work_ is clinical and pretentious. _I know you just want to save everyone_ is even worse. He coughed when the silence stretched on long enough that Lestrade looked at him with quizzical brows arched above his dark eyes. What finally passed John's lips was, "You holding up all right?"

Lestrade slumped a bit, then. He trailed his fingers through the condensation pearling around the base of his glass and said, "It was bloody fuck terrible, I tell you. Not that every one of them isn't, I don't need to tell you that. Every body you deal with, another life snuffed out and the weight of all that wasted potential…" John felt a chill race down his spine and he suppressed the shudder that came over him at the heaviness of Lestrade's words; the sheer exhaustion in his bearing and the way it mirrored what John himself felt each and every time they were called to a body scene. His attention was recalled from its gruesome track when Lestrade continued, "So it's something else altogether when it's a live one you're dealing with. When you _know_ you're racing against time to try and keep another body out of the morgue."

Their eyes met and John wanted to say he knew exactly what Lestrade meant. Luke-the-barman chose this opportune moment to lean in and ask if he should leave the bottle. John and Lestrade both looked to the inspector's glass. Both cocked their heads in surprise. Lestrade looked at John with a sheepish grin. "Do you remember when I finished that? I didn't realized I'd finished it." Luke looked between them with knowing eyes and left the bottle, walking away down the length of the bar.

John tried to recapture the moment. "You were saying…? You figured out the girl was the victim's granddaughter, and she'd slipped up and given him away? That's what I gathered from Sherlock."

"Yeah." Lestrade hesitated, then gave a minute shrug and poured himself another drink. "She didn't realize who she was talking to. Told him everything he needed to know to find the old man's house. She didn't know, how could she? Criminals are getting savvier, it seems. Bad luck for granddad he was home when he wasn't supposed to be."

"So what happened? After you asked me if scoliosis was hereditary, you figured it must be his granddaughter and found out where she was?"

"Yeah. Tracked down an address, went round as soon as I did. Middle uh th'night, thought it was a long shot. Don't tell Sherlock I said that." Lestrade gave a crooked grin. "Met him there, God knows how he'd figured it out, but soon as I saw him, figured I must be on track. Funniest bloody thing, despite what happened. We're standing in the front garden of the girl's house and all he cares about is how I got there. 'What are you doing here,' he says, and I just said, 'Solving my case,' and started ringing the bell. You shoulda seen his face, never seen ennathin' like it."

John grinned and leaned his chin on his fist, enjoying the way Lestrade's Somerset accent came out to play as the Scotch loosened his tongue.

"But ennaway." Lestrade shook his head and seemed to pull his thoughts together, tapping his fingers lightly against the bar. "I knocked fer a bit, an' rang the bell. No answer. Sherlock ducked 'round the side uh th' house to look in a window and alla'sudden he shouted, 'Lestrade! Get in there, now!' I've heard that voice uh his before, I knew what it meant. I kicked in the door an' there she was… But first uh course I got tackled by that fuckin' dog uh hers. Nearly took me arm off. By the time I could see ennathin' Sherlock's already in there, cuttin'er down. She had one uh them…you know, those…exposed beam houses, whatever they're called. Threw a rope over, kicked the chair away… Good night, Vienna. Almost."

"Jesus."

"I know. Poor thing, she's just a kid. By the time we got'er down an' it was all over the three of us are all on the floor an' she's sobbin' an' cryin', 'It's all my fault, it's all my fault I want to die.' Wouldn't let go uh Sherlock, hung 'round his neck til the paramedics got there. Bleedin' Christ, it was horrible." Lestrade downed his drink and pulled a face, pushing the glass away.

"But she's all right. She'll really be all right?"

"Yeah. She will. She's young."

John blinked and said softly, "Some things are hard to come back from."

In his periphery John saw Lestrade cringe, looking down the room as if for escape. "Oh. Yeah," he mumbled. He darted a glance sideways at John and their eyes met and it was clear what Lestrade was thinking, so he just said it. It's something John had noticed about Lestrade; something he liked about him. "You lost your dad, right?"

"Yeah." The row that had followed Sherlock's blunt, _John--your father committed suicide rather than face terminal illness, maybe you can advise; what would you, as the grieving son, do in this situation?_ while on the trail of a serial malpracticer had almost ended with him moving out of the flat in Baker Street. _"I told you that in_ confidence, _Sherlock!_ How _can you not understand why I'm upset about this!" "Oh hell, we were on the trail of a serial killer! What do your petty social foibles_ matter, _Doctor?"_ John had since shoved it out of his memory, had almost forgot that Lestrade had been there for that one. "Is she…I mean, have you…" John trailed off, blinking, and gave Lestrade a crooked grin. "You know, this is awfully unusual pub chat."

Lestrade huffed a laugh. "A bit, yeah," and returned John's hesitant smile.

And god _damn_ but it was a nice smile. He shortly realized that they were sitting there, smiling at each other, _again,_ and he felt the flush creeping up his neck and prickling across his chest and wondered just how pink he was turning. Looking down at the drink sweating between his palms he heard himself murmur, before he'd actually made up his mind to say anything, "Guess Sherlock wasn't so off, the other day. What he said." He glanced at Lestrade and saw him make the connection. _What he said about us flirting._

Lestrade tilted his head to look openly at John, rubbing at a spot above his left eye, his face relaxing into a grin as he chuckled, a deep rich sound that crept in without fanfare past the drums of his ears and through the pores of his skin to just spread and spread til all John could think was how much he'd like to _taste_ that sound.

"Does that surprise you," Lestrade asked at last, "Sherlock being right?"

They were pressed together from knee to hip but neither of them moved to pull away. "Not really. No." John laughed outright. "Not at all."

~~~

Closing time tracked them down in a little corner booth. They'd been there for an hour at least but who knows really--everything changes tempo with five pints of northern stout or a bottle of Glenfiddich in your blood and a beautiful man at your side. Lestrade--still _Lestrade;_ John had tried in his mind to call him _Greg_ but it hadn't worked at all--had one hand on John's knee and the other rested behind his head on the back of the seat and they were speaking near enough into each others' mouths that John could taste the Scotch on his tongue.

"I'm telling you--they traded Dominic, that was their first mistake. That team is _nothing_ without--"

"So you're just completely discounting Finch and Dascombe--"

" _Hang_ Finch, you're not seriously going to give me that rubbish about him and Hammond--"

John didn't have a good answer to that worn-out argument, so he fisted his hand in the DI's rumpled shirt and kissed him.

Lestrade stiffened against him and John held his breath, pulling away just enough to give Lestrade an out. The inspector's hands were trembling, John could feel it where they rested on his knee and--when had that happened--on the back of his neck. Lestrade's fingers flexed against his skin, then raked up through his hair to mold to the back of his skull. John finally met his eyes.

Lestrade's look said, _are you sure?_

John's nod said, _Oh, God, yes._


	4. Coward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is the first to notice that John and Lestrade are flirting instead of paying attention to him. He is not impressed. John is, though. Impressed, that is. And...pleased. As is Lestrade. Pleased...and nervous. Pasts, presents and possible futures make up six installments (and a smutty epilogue) rotating POV between Sherlock, Lestrade and John, set shortly after John moves in with Sherlock.
> 
> Part Four :: As Sherlock passed him by, the inspector murmured to him, eyes flinty, voice soft, "You're a coward, Sherlock Holmes."

She might not have done it at all if she hadn't seen him through the window. She startled, losing her balance and tipping over the chair that stood between her and gravity. Or perhaps the beam would not have held; it was mainly decorative after all. Certainly she wouldn't have fallen with enough force to break her neck. Strangulation would have been slow and she probably could have struggled enough to free herself, especially considering how she tied the knot. So perhaps Sherlock didn't save her, but it definitely appeared as though he did. Lestrade certainly thought so, and he made sure when his team showed up that everyone knew it. Perhaps imagining it would deter Donovan from calling him "freak" to know that he'd just saved a young woman's life. Lestrade never had managed to fully comprehend how deeply rooted was her loathing for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock stared dispassionately at a curl of hair on her shoulder and deleted the vitriol that floated past his ears before he even registered the meaning.

 _Pacing in the small strip of clear space between the kitchen and the living room, fingertips tapping, blood racing. Sleeves pushed up, patches slapped on. Too wired for sleep, too tired for thought._ How _is all he wants to know. No--he knows_ how. _He understands; he doesn't comprehend. The file, the medical records, the mention of scoliosis, the hunch that it was a family connection. Even the hunch he can forgive--but he can't track Lestrade's process can't follow his thoughts can't connect his dots and that_ infuriates _him, makes his skin crawl and his palms itch, the balls of his feet ache and he is altogether too much in his body, too confined within his skin. His mind cannot soar when vaulted cathedral arches are replaced with low-slung timber frame and dirty logic._ Even while distracted over John. He figured it out even then - How?! _John who's sitting watching him and then suddenly gone and Sherlock has been speaking aloud or maybe he hasn't been; irrelevant._

He had the girl's weight, his fingers between the rope and her windpipe giving her breathing room. His knife was in his inside jacket pocket as always, but how to get to it. Then Lestrade's hand was close to his skin and he was drawing out the knife without asking, just knowing. The rope gave way and they collapsed onto the floor.

The girl clearly thought that this was the best course of action. Who was Sherlock to say differently? She'd made a mistake that had cost her only parental figure his life. She'd found him on the floor, beaten and broken and bloody, a heap of useless parts, disgusting in their lack of functionality. That was something she would carry with her every moment that she continued to live and breathe. She had intended to end her guilt the only permanent way there was in this world. Sherlock would not have grieved her death. True; he never grieved. He knew what Lestrade would say, knew what John would say. _She's young. She'll heal. Where there is life there is hope._ Dull. Tedious. Meant to comfort everyone but the girl herself. Sherlock watched Lestrade struggle to sit up, watched him carefully close up the flick knife, and wondered if he'd be able to reconcile this conclusion--his involvement in the continuation of life--with the loss of his knife. With enduring another night, or three or five depending on whether or not Lestrade realised this flick knife was the same one he'd confiscated from Sherlock three years ago, in a cell.

But Lestrade said nothing as he pockets it. Sherlock grinned briefly, satisfied, and lurched to his feet with the girl still clinging to him. Lestrade would leave it in a locked drawer of his desk for him to reclaim under the condition that Lestrade didn't see him do it. This dance he knew all the steps to.

 _John comes back in after midnight, reeking of alcohol underscored with the tang of Lestrade's aftershave. Sherlock looks up and tilts his head, as though he hadn't realised John had ever left._ Where've you been? _John's face as he tries to hide. As he registers amazement that Sherlock doesn't known. As he settles in to the feeling of having a secret._

 _\- Someplace John had never been before. Invited there. Lestrade's comfort zone. Scotch. The Prospect, perhaps.  
\- An hour at the bar, an hour in a booth. Closing the gap and backing off again. That game of denying desire that Sherlock does not understand.  
\- John made his move first.  
\- John kissed him.  
\- Lestrade let John kiss him, in a pub, out in the open, amongst people who might recognize him.  
\- Twenty minutes of snogging against the wall in the side street.  
\- John wanted to go home with him.  
\- Lestrade didn't ask him.  
\- John was hoping to sleep with him._

Lestrade called them in early the next morning, sounding apologetic. They sat in his office signing off on statements and case notes. John didn't really need to be there. Sherlock looked between them as Lestrade spun the story out far longer than Sherlock would normally have allowed if he hadn't been engaged with his observations. John kept biting the inside of his cheek, occasionally ruffling his hand through the back of his hair, and looking up to catch Lestrade's eyes on a bashful smile that Sherlock found frankly nauseating. His John, acting like a schoolboy with a crush. Lestrade finally stood and so did John. Sherlock stayed seated. John hesitated. Lestrade frowned.

"I'll just be out here, then," John stepped to the door.

Lestrade's half-worded murmur and slightly raised hand meant something to John that Sherlock stored away for later. When the door was shut, he stood.

 _You hurt him and I'll hurt you._

"I strongly advise you to reconsider."

Lestrade's face went dark and he lowered himself into his desk chair, leaning back to look up at Sherlock. Sherlock's hand curled around the reclaimed flick knife in his pocket.

"You are approaching each other with entirely different expectations. And neither of you is quite..."

Lestrade's lip curled. "Consulting relationship counsellor, is it, now?"

Sherlock drew himself up and sniffed. "Hardly. I'm sure there's nothing novel in my observation that neither of you is quite ideally suited to a relationship. He's a traumatized war veteran and you're still grieving for someone you never acknowledged outside of your posh townhouse; whose name you haven't even spoken aloud in six years. And you are seriously considering gambling your equilibrium on something that is clearly doomed to failure. Isn't this what friends do? Point out errors before they're made?"

 _Sitting in his chair, wreaking havoc on his violin. Re-stringing the A and ignoring the sting from where it had snapped against his hand, retaliating against the abuse. It's just on four o'clock when he hears the door close. He gives the task his full attention. John wanders in. Absently;_ Evening. Er. Morning. _Sherlock doesn't mean to--he looks up. The peaceful smile on John's face is not meant for him. He gives a disgruntled sniff--aftershave, ale, skin, sweat, ejaculate, soap--and twangs the fresh string, gliding his bow along it. Silk snagging against calloused fingertips. It makes his stomach churn but settles the discord in his brain._ John. If you in any way damage Inspector Lestrade, you will no longer be welcome in London, let alone in this flat.

 _Isn't this what friends do? Point out errors before they're made?_

Lestrade settled his hands behind his head and looked up at Sherlock. And once again, Sherlock could not read him. He'd expected to make him angry. An angry Lestrade was an easily-manipulated Lestrade.

"You never step without knowing there'll be solid ground beneath your foot, do you. Why should you? With a mind like yours." Lestrade shook his head, eyes slipping away from Sherlock's. "You've no idea what it feels like to strive for something."

Sherlock was picking apart his metaphor when Lestrade rose, crossing to open the door. John was down the hall and Lestrade beckoned to him. Sherlock understood that his time was up.

As Sherlock passed him by, the inspector murmured to him, eyes flinty, voice soft, "You're a coward, Sherlock Holmes."


	5. (Just Like) Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is the first to notice that John and Lestrade are flirting instead of paying attention to him. He is not impressed. John is, though. Impressed, that is. And...pleased. As is Lestrade. Pleased...and nervous. Pasts, presents and possible futures make up six installments (and a smutty epilogue) rotating POV between Sherlock, Lestrade and John, set shortly after John moves in with Sherlock.
> 
> Parts Five and Six :: Lestrade knocked his knee against John's and grinned, embarrassed but suddenly very happy. By the time they stood up to leave, it wasn't a question; John was coming home with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This section is two parts interwoven ~~because I'm a big sap and look how the narrative style mirrors John and Lestrade's lives growing together awwww.~~ ~~because John and Lestrade couldn't agree on whose section should go next. Lestrade was up next in the rotation but for some reason he really wanted to go last, so we compromised oh wait that makes me sound crazy.~~ just because.  
>  2) This chapter beta'd by the amazing ImpishTubist!  
> 3) Chapter titled thusly because I wrote it on my other favourite John's birthday ♥

Lestrade opened his office door and beckoned John to come in. As he passed by he glanced at Sherlock's face. Then quickly looked again. The consulting detective looked as though he'd been struck. John looked to Lestrade, standing by his desk now with his hands in fists at his sides, looking as though he'd done the striking.

Sherlock stalked out and John closed the door behind him. He was about to ask what _that_ had been all about but the words died on his lips when he caught the look Lestrade was directing at him.

"Look, John…are you…do you want to…" There was a kind of sideways intensity to the question although he kept his expression guarded, wary of looking too hopeful, maybe. Which John thought was ridiculous, and tried to counter with a broad smile and a nod.

"Yeah. I do. Tonight? Dinner?"

Lestrade blinked and ran his knuckles along his bottom lip, looking at John across two feet of space that was far too broad for John's liking. Then he grinned, without warning, the expression taking over his whole face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." John ducked his head, completely disarmed by his grin. "Indian? I know a place."

"Right." When John looked at him again, his DI-face was back on and he was surveying the stack of forms on his desk. "I dunno when I'll be done here, honestly."

"Well…call me?"

Lestrade nodded. They stood and smiled at each other for a minute, hands in pockets, locked together in anticipation and held apart by the wide glass windows of Lestrade's fishbowl of an office. At last John licked his lips and glanced around, then gave a soft, bemused sort of laugh and scuffed his shoe against the floor. He reached for the door handle behind him without another word.

~~~

 _Yeah. I do. Tonight? Dinner?_

Lestade felt a swoop of relief that pained him even as he realised it. He'd been worried, a bit, about what Sherlock had said-- _You have entirely different expectations_. Did John want…or only want…was he just after sex? Apparently not. Dinner, it was. But then what did that mean that _he_ wanted, if John was after dinner?

He shortly realised that he was standing and staring after John and second-guessing himself, Sherlock's voice crowding out any rational thoughts that he might be able to call his own. So he sat and began stacking up the case notes and documents he'd had Sherlock sign off on, the detective's wild scrawl taking him by surprise and amusing him, as always.

This had come out of nowhere. John. John had come out of nowhere. He'd barely registered his presence at Sherlock's new flat, that day back in January when he'd come to fetch Sherlock to Lauriston Gardens. But then there he was. One day, Sherlock. The next day, Sherlock and John. And then yesterday…

He hadn't been with anyone since Sean. He hadn't exactly planned on it ending up that way, but there it was. He'd had no one after Sean died. He'd felt like a stranger at the funeral. Sean's friends huddled together and mostly ignored him. Sean's family did the same. He'd let the solicitors handle the house; he just couldn't deal with it. He'd flung himself at his work like a man gone mad. A man with nothing to lose. Which he was. Which was how he'd met Sherlock. A year after Sean's accident. Lestrade wasn't technically on the case, or on the clock, or allowed to do what he'd been doing, but he'd had a hunch he couldn't ignore. And it had led him down progressively darker and shadier streets until he was chasing a serial killer with a SIG through Vauxhall arches in the middle of the night. He wouldn't have caught him either, might have caught a bullet in the chest for his troubles, even, if this young, skinny junkie hadn't been waiting in the dark to tackle the murderer to the ground.

And that was it. Five more years had passed in the blink of eye. There'd been a point, maybe two years ago, when he'd flirted with the idea of looking again, looking for someone. But he'd blinked and that had passed, too. Where to even start looking, at his age, in his position? He hadn't the faintest. And he hadn't been lonely. He had the work and, in an odd way, he had Sherlock.

And now…John?

Was it that John just came along with Sherlock, a kind of package deal? Was that why Sherlock was in such a snit about the whole thing? Christ, where had that come from--calling Sherlock a coward? What was it, 'At least I'm not afraid to reach out and take what I want?' Like he was taking something away from Sherlock?

Christ. This was far too daytime-telly to be his life. He put the blonde doctor out of his mind and started in on the paperwork.

~~~

He'd been in Lestrade's office for all of two minutes, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight when John backed out of it.

(Yeah--backed out. So he could keep his eyes on the DI for just another moment longer. Christ, he was in trouble.)

He considered texting him-- _Could you please stop doing that?_ \--but decided against it. In the month that he'd known Sherlock he'd gotten pretty used to being left behind. Or simply forgotten. And today…he didn't mind being alone with his thoughts. He hadn't gotten used to the feeling that when one was with Sherlock, one was never quite _alone_ with one's thoughts.

He walked slowly away from the Yard, hands in his pockets, feeling aimless.

A couple streets later he felt his stomach start to scold him for the lack of attention that morning. John had still been in bed when Sherlock shouted up the stairs to him--I'm off to the Yard!--and he'd had to scramble after the detective to catch up. Sherlock hadn't invited him along, but didn't comment when he appeared at the bottom of the stairs as Sherlock was tying his scarf. For his silence, John was grateful. He didn't have any delusions now that it would last, and was in no hurry to face whatever was waiting for him when he next caught up with his flatmate. He'd seen their faces as they talked in Lestrade's office; they'd been talking about him.

He stopped at a newsagent's before turning down a side street in search of a little breakfast café he remembered passing the first time he and Sherlock came down to the Yard together, after the conclusion of the pink lady's case. "A Study in Pink," he'd decided to call it, feeling rather clever as he sat down the other night and began pecking away at his laptop, telling the story of those first days of his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't sure quite what to expect by way of a reaction from the consulting detective, but considering the way he had folded John's presence, and his praise, into his life without a hitch in his long stride, John figured he'd at least be amused, if not flattered.

He ordered a coffee and a scone and sat in the window, newspaper to hand but staring out into space

He ran his tongue along his gums and fancied that he could still make out the taste of Glenfiddich.

He hadn't been kissed like that in…Christ…two or three years, at least. It had left him reeling and all-but gasping, dizzy and wanting so, so much more. He'd spent the whole way home berating himself for not asking Lestrade back with him. So what that Sherlock was there, he could have minded his own ruddy business for once in his life.   
He sighed and leaned his chin in his hand. On the second page of the paper was a story about the Lucretia murder, complete with a small photograph of Detective Inspector Lestrade. John gave a startled laugh, then looked around to see if anyone was looking at him. No one was, and he shook his head at himself, folding the paper and determinedly _not_ staring at the photo.

Lestrade was just the type of man you'd like to take home to meet your mother. Of course he was exactly the type of man John would never introduce to his mother--he was the type of man on whom family legends of "daddy issues" were constructed. And John was quite through giving his mother any more fuel for _that_ fire. It was all very well for Harry. She'd been gay long before their dad…died…and anyway it was her drinking that mum was always more interested in assigning the blame for.

His hand tightened reflexively around his mug and he realised he was scowling. He forced several slow, deep breaths, picturing the oxygen flowing out through his limbs to the tips of his fingers and toes. By the fourth exhale his hands had relaxed and the buzzing in his ears had subsided.

He left the newspaper unread on the chair beside him and left.

It had been a lovely couple of days--thank God, considering the case they'd been on--and this one was looking to follow the trend. Unseasonably mild, the air whispered those tantalizing promises of spring against his skin. He decided to walk home.

He hoped Lestrade would call him soon. He was already grinning in anticipation of hearing his voice again.

 _Christ, I'm in trouble._

He had been harbouring secret admiration for the striking DI almost since they met. He'd taken equal note of the way Sherlock casually abused him to his face and the way he stubbornly refused to work with anyone else. John had quickly decided that "The best of a bad lot" was not a satisfactory explanation for their continued association. Sherlock didn't _need_ Lestrade, didn't _need_ the police at all. What was it, then; simply, as he'd said, "The frailty of genius"? The need for an audience? It was a puzzle that had kept John's focus on Lestrade until curiosity had turned to intrigue and then to attraction.

He'd never expected Lestrade to reciprocate. Christ, he'd thought he was _married._ To a woman. And yeah--what was that about; last night as Lestrade had raked fingers through his hair John had felt the cool, hard press of Lestrade's ring against his ear. Widower? Defence mechanism? John wanted very much to know.

He found himself at long last, feeling like no time at all had passed, standing on the pavement and looking up at 221b Baker Street. His home.

His life with Sherlock, thought still barely out of its wrapping, already felt old. Worn-in. Felt _right._ He could hardly remember the time before. And he certainly did not want to imagine a time after. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth to hide his grin from the CCTV camera that looked his way like an old friend. This was what his life had become. And Lestrade felt like someone who could keep up.

~~~

It was almost twelve hours before Lestrade phoned John.

Diving headfirst into his massive pile of work for the day distracted him for awhile. Until he was done with one stack and clearing off his desk to submit his final report on the Lucretia case and he found his hands near shaking as a wave of _what the hell am I playing at_ broke over him without warning or remorse.

He didn't have a place--neither time nor space--for someone else in his life. _So let it be what it will be. You're putting the cart before the horse, Greg. You haven't even had dinner yet. You only just kissed him last night._ And oh, God, that was the _wrong_ thing to focus on right now. He rubbed his palms against the tops of his thighs, running his tongue along the backs of his teeth and staring off into the middle distance, eyes going unfocused.

He had wanted so desperately to drag John home with him last night. The feel of another body pressed up against his, the mystifying (but undeniable) feel of being wanted. He'd forgotten that part. How intoxicating it was. He probably would have, too, dragged John home that is, if the same fear that's plaguing him now hadn't crept into his bones and held him back. _Six years. And what about tomorrow?_ It was absurd, he knew it was absurd, but there it was.

And there he was, standing in his untidy flat and punching up John's number, trying to keep the hope out of his voice as he said, "John, hi. Just got out. Is it too late?"

Of course it wasn't too late. Of course John was ready with a smile in his voice to give him the address of the restaurant where he wanted to take him. Said like that, too. John wanted to take him someplace; wanted to take him out. Lestrade found himself dressing with more care than he did for most press conferences.

The table was just a little too big to feel really intimate and they were right on the main throughway from the kitchen, so Lestrade spent most of the meal flinching every time it looked like a waiter was going to drop a curry down John's neck.

John had been waiting for him when he arrived. Standing there in that coat he always wore and that smile Lestrade had never seen before the other day. John had reached for him and squeezed his arm--as Lestrade stood there, frozen, _Oh God this is really happening_ \--before pulling him inside.

 _They were talking about Sherlock--about the only subject they'd been able to sustain for more than a few minutes before trailing off into awkward silence--when Lestrade once again bit down on his back teeth as he watched a waiter pass behind John and just miss clocking him in the back of the head with a tray. John turned to follow his gaze and then rolled his eyes._

 _"If it's bothering you that much…" he said, pulling his chair around the corner of the table to sit with his shoulder pressed against Lestrade's. He pressed his lips together but his eyes were twinkling, his face very close to Lestrade's, as he said quietly, "There. Better?"_

 _Lestrade knocked his knee against John's and grinned, embarrassed but suddenly very happy. "Yeah."_

 _And then their dishes were cleared and the bill presented and _then_ , of course, all the things they couldn't think of to say with plates of steaming food between them came tumbling out into the narrowing space between their lips. As though there weren't enough hours left in the day to say all the things they wanted the other to hear. John teased Lestrade for being nervous and Lestrade, finding John's foot with his under the table, chided him for being eager. Their waiter came back for the cheque three times before they noticed him, and when they did it was to tussle over who could get his wallet out first. John won that battle and fell back into his seat with a breathless laugh and glowing face as the man walked away shaking his head._

By the time they stood up to leave, it was not a question at all. John was going home with him.

~

He'd barely got the door open before John was pressing him back against the wall and kissing him fiercely, and Lestrade could _feel_ on him the desire that had been thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin all day, that _need_ to touch, to have, to prove it was real, to prove it happened before and would again. John's hands were pushing past his jacket, were raking down his sides and rucking up his shirt, fingertips somehow insistent and hesitant at once against his bare skin. He gasped, _John,_ and the name tasted so much like _Sean_ on his lips that his heart about had a fit behind his ribs and he turned his head away, panting, eyes trying to focus on the _now,_ on the details of the hallway. This was his flat in central London. That was the cheap carpet on the floor, that was the door that led to the bedroom no one but him had ever seen. This was not the house in Kensington, that was not the door to the little room where he kept his past locked tidily away. This was _John,_ in his arms. This was John, wanting him _now_ ; alive and present _now._

"Sorry," he didn't quite meet John's eyes, instead resting his forehead against John's temple, one hand sliding around to the small of his back, holding him close. His voice was gruff and strange as he admitted, "Been a while, s'all."

John's laugh was low and nervous but he only held tighter to Lestrade, turning to press his lips against his jaw, nodding. "Yeah. For me too, a bit."

John's thumbs massaged slow circles against his hips, and Lestrade could feel the beating of the doctor's heart through layers of skin and bone and shirts and jackets. "God damn," he breathed, inhaling deeply, inhaling the scent of him, of cologne and masala and a kind of doctor-smell that clung to him even though God only knew when he last saw the inside of a surgery; a smell that Lestrade wouldn't--shouldn't--find as intoxicating as he did except that it was him, it was _them,_ it was John and suddenly it didn't matter that the thought was barely forty-eight hours old; the fact was that it's John and it's him and that's suddenly an equation that makes sense.

Lestrade laughed, a sudden burst of sound, and pulled John's face to his with palms against his cheeks, their lips sealed together, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs as though desperate to break free. "Christ," he breathed, not breaking away from John. "Think we'll remember where everything goes?"


	6. Nothing (and no one!) you can do that can't be done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to play pool. Lestrade has a better idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by ImpishTubist, who requested pool table!sex. And this is what happened.

They're in a pub neither's ever been to before. Lestrade found it because that morning John had said he felt like going out--felt like playing pool or darts or something like that. Something like he did at uni to blow off steam on the weekends. _Where are we going?_ John kept asking, and Lestrade would just shrug and say _Left here._

It's a dive, quite honestly, and nearly empty. Someone at the Yard had recommended it to him, saying, _I like it cos you never have to wait for a table._ Which was true enough; from the front come the sounds of terrible dance music and a few drunken revellers enjoying themselves at the bar, but they're the only ones in the pool hall at back.

"Not exactly like the places I went when I was a student," John had said, turning to grin up at him.

Lestrade had shrugged again, embarrassed, but the way John had pulled him in and kissed his appreciation did away with that. Now he's dropping coins into the ancient jukebox, scrolling through in amusement to find something John might like, settling with a smile on Elton John, just to see if he'd notice. He turns back in time to see John bending over to line up his shot and, _Oh, this is just too easy._

He cosies in behind John, his left hand drifting down his stomach to squeeze his hip. He feels John startle, but just as quickly still himself, and without missing a beat he takes his shot, sending the green number 6 gliding into the corner pocket. John reaches for the bottle of beer he'd left perched on the edge of the table and takes a long pull before turning his head and speaking against Lestrade's jaw. "You're a right bastard, y'know that?"

"And you're bloody impressive with that big stick. You know _that_?"

John laughs and turns to face him and Lestrade presses his advantage--presses him back against the table and kisses his neck, feeling giddy. John's laugh grows breathy, on the edge of turning to giggles, and he puts his beer down to hold tight to Lestrade's hips, pulling him closer and grinding up against him. "And now _you're_ the one acting like a student."

"You make me _feel_ like a student." Lestrade bites none-too-gently on his bottom lip, thrilling to the way John lets out a little gasp and moan as his head falls to one side, his hands tightening their hold on him. Lestrade runs his hands down the outside of John's thighs and nudges him up til he's sitting on the edge of the pool table. John's looking at him with eyes blown dark with surprise and excitement, chest heaving in short, sharp bursts as Lestrade insinuates himself between his knees, looking down on him like he's the best fuckin' thing he's ever seen. Which he is. Good God, he is. He wonders if John knows this, thinks maybe he should tell him. But before he can wrap his mind around anything so complex as a complete sentence, John's beating him to it.

"You are so bloody gorgeous. Have I told you?" John lays one hand along his cheek, and as Lestrade ducks his head he feels the stubble on his jaw--no time to shave that morning; five more minutes in bed had been entirely more important--grate against John's palm and sees John's nose wrinkle just slightly, as though it tickles. He kisses John with everything he's got, all the pent up and wordless emotion and desire and the desperate beating rhythm of his heart and the heat that flashed out through every limb before rushing to settle low in his belly. All of it, all of it for John, all of it for the way he looks at him, the way he speaks to him. Lestrade doesn't have the words to answer back, so he doesn't; he just kisses him and trusts that to speak for him.

"Mm," John hums, bracing a hand against Lestrade's chest, holding him away just slightly. "We're going to have a pretty serious problem here if you keep doing that."

Lestrade flashes a wicked smirk and presses lips to his jaw, teeth grazing skin before sucking lightly on his earlobe. He trails fingers up John's thigh, up…up…up…until John is nearly panting, eyes rolling closed and fighting to stay still under Lestrade's hand.

"Problem?" Lestrade murmurs in his ear.

"Problem? No," John gasps, shaking his head. _Don't stop,_ is what Lestrade hears. "No. No, no problem here. No problem…oh, Christ…"

Lestrade glances over John's shoulder at the beaded curtain that is the only thing between them and the rest of the pub. _Fuck it._

He's gotten quite good at snaps and buttons in the last weeks. John's trousers are open before the doctor realises what's on and Lestrade laughs aloud as John arches against him, letting out a strangled cry that's lost in the cacophony of _Love Game_ from the front hall and _Rocket Man_ behind them. John lifts his own hand to his mouth and bites down hard on the webbing between thumb and forefinger to stifle the noises that Lestrade has become so brilliant at wringing out of him.

The whole thing is so absurd that Lestrade can't really believe it's happening to him--no; assign blame where it's due; can't believe _he's doing it_ \--which is what lets him keep going. It can't really be happening, therefore there's no reason to stop. So he doesn't stop, until John is shuddering against him and mumbling incoherently, a string of words he can't make out on their own though their meaning is clear when he pulls back to look at John's face.

With another quick look around, Lestrade is on his knees in front of John and John's groan is ripped bodily from him, shattering his self-control, bringing him crashing to completion as he braces his hands on the pool table behind him, back arching, legs shaking, eyes wide.

"Oh…my…God…" Are the first words Lestrade hears in the ringing non-silence that follows. And then John's hands are scrabbling at his back, his collar, trying to haul him up. Lestrade grins down at his shoes and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and allows himself to be pulled. His mouth crashes against John's, almost painful but the most wonderful kind of pain he could ever imagine, as the doctor plunders his mouth, hands flying over his body, greedy to touch and taste and claim every bit of him. "Oh. My. _God_ ," he's mumbling again, "you are…insane. Completely… _completely_ mad. Holy Christ, Greg, I--"

John blinks and leaves his eyes open this time, staring into Lestrade's own, his hands fisted in the front of Lestrade's shirt, shaking a bit as he clings to him. After a moment he gives a soft laugh and leans forward, resting their foreheads together. "Is this what you were like when you were a student?"

"Me? Nah." He kisses John's ear, stroking down his sides, callouses catching against the fine weave of his jumper. "I was very…" Lestrade kisses his jaw, "very…" catches his lips for a long moment, " _very_ boring. Very studious. With really terrible dress sense. You wouldn't have liked me at all."

John pulls back to cock his head at him, and flashes a grin that absolutely melts Lestrade to his core. "'Course, when you were at uni, I woulda been just a kid in a school blazer. I probably woulda thought you were _bangin'._ "

Lestrade groans and rolls his head back on his shoulders, feeling his face go red. "Oy, that is _enough_ outta you t'night. See if I ever do _that_ for you again."

John is laughing and pulling him back close, wrapping his arms around him and holding tight. Lestrade gives in and buries his face in John's hair.

"Christ," he mumbles, "can you imagine if we were caught out like that?"

John huffs a laugh. "Can you imagine what Sherlock will say?"

Lestrade stiffens a bit and asks cautiously, " _Will_ say? Will you be telling him, then?"

A soft sigh. "I won't have to."

"Ah." A beat of silence. Then, annoyed, "Has he _really_ been _deducing_ our sex life?"

John tilts his face up to look at him. "Only when he wants attention."

Lestrade lets out a laugh at that--a full-body laugh that surprises himself as much as it does John. That's happened more these past two weeks than the past many years put together. Lestrade isn't easily surprised; more than that he's not often surprised by himself. He's found he likes the feeling. They're slumped together on the pool table by the time they catch their breath, and Lestrade's leaning on his elbow and watching John as he does up his trousers, shaking his head.

"I still cannot _believe_ you just did that."

Neither can Lestrade. He reaches out to smooth John's hair back into place. John grins and shakes his head once more, then picks up the abandoned pool cue and hands it over. _Your turn._

And, despite all that, John still wins their game.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart: John, Lestrade and a certain pool table](https://archiveofourown.org/works/328579) by [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl)




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